Notes Beside the Bamboo Window — Third Collection, Part 9

There are those in the household who have left it in spirit; there are those who have left the household who remain in it in spirit; there are those in the household who remain in it in both body and spirit; and there are those who have left the household who have left it in both body and spirit as well. One who dwells among family and household, with parents, wife, and children, and yet whose mind remains constantly fixed on the Way, untouched by worldly dust — this is one in the household who has left it in spirit. One who dwells within a monastery, free from the burdens of parents, wife, and children, and yet whose mind chases after fame and profit exactly like an ordinary layperson — this is one who has left the household who remains in it in spirit. One who dwells amid worldly affairs, bound his whole life long, never once giving rise to a single thought of liberation — this is one who remains in the household in both body and spirit. One who dwells within a monastery, diligent and vigorous his whole life long, never once giving rise to a single thought of retreat or laziness — this is one who has left the household in both body and spirit as well.

This is exactly what the ancients meant by their four categories of leaving home in body and mind. And yet, while one who has left home in both body and spirit is naturally a person of superior capacity, beyond further discussion — between one who has left home in body but remains in it in spirit, and one who remains in the household in both body and spirit, it would be better to be the latter. Why? To wear the monastic robe and yet lose one's own human dignity beneath it is the lowest of the low.

Ordinary people, wherever their own passions lie, indulge them without regard to day or night. "The day is short, and the misery of the long night presses on — why not carry a lantern and go out to enjoy oneself?" — this is spoken by one indulging in sightseeing pleasures. "A hundred years amounts to thirty-six thousand days — every single day, one ought to drain three hundred cups" — this is spoken by one indulging in drink. "The wandering traveler chants verses until his lamp burns down at midnight" — this is spoken by one indulging in poetry. "A long summer day is consumed entirely by a single game of chess" — this is spoken by one indulging in board games. The ancients gave this clear instruction: "This day has already passed, and one's own life has diminished along with it — apply yourself diligently and vigorously, as though putting out a fire burning on your own head." Monks today, admittedly, rarely indulge in drink — but the other three temptations, sightseeing, poetry, and games, they may well still fall into. To let such precious time slip carelessly away, empty and wasted — is this not truly something to regret?

A teacher of old once instructed the assembly, saying: "You have all left the household life, and yet, before your own footing has ever truly become secure, thirty or forty years have already slipped by!" Hearing such genuinely earnest and painful words, we ought to feel our hearts tremble and our hair stand on end — and yet there are still many who spend their own youthful, vigorous years busily engaged in conditioned undertakings. Some rush about from south to north, saying: "I am paying homage at famous mountains." Some cast and repair statues, saying: "I am honoring the Three Jewels." Some gather crowds to hold assemblies, saying: "I am helping to spread the Dharma's own transformative teaching." Though these activities may bear a good name, and are nothing like the sightseeing or drinking mentioned above, they still amount to the very same waste of precious time. Should one, on some future day, suddenly awaken to this earlier error, one will already have grown feeble and decrepit with age, and regret will come too late! This is exactly why it is said: "Fail to strive in youth and vigor, and old age brings only empty grief." Alas! And there are even those who pass their entire lives at ease, never once feeling any grief over it at all.

There was once an eminent man, advanced in years and high in rank, who kept an honored guest to share a meal with him. The guest expected a lavish feast — and yet what was set before him was only coarse rice and a single bowl of vegetable soup, nothing more. The guest was deeply impressed and full of admiration. Wealthy households today, entertaining guests, spare nothing — boiling, roasting, frying, and grilling every kind of feathered, furred, scaled, and shelled creature imaginable — this is a grave error indeed.

Someone might object: "The Yijing itself speaks of 'the great feast that nourishes the sages' — how, then, do you explain this?" Ah! Have you never also heard that "two simple bamboo dishes may still serve for a sacrificial offering" — is this not also the Yijing's own clear teaching?

And yet, even among monastics, though they refrain from killing entirely, preparing an excessive variety of vegetarian dishes is likewise not truly fitting. Someone might further object: "At the Ullambana assembly, every delicacy the world affords is gathered to offer the venerable sangha — how, then, do you explain this?" Ah! Have you never also heard the story of the poor mother who offered a mere trace of leftover broth to a pratyekabuddha, and thereby earned the blessing of heavenly rebirth — is this not also a clear teaching found within the Buddhist scriptures? What truly matters lies in the heart, not in the material offering itself.

Someone asked: "Li Zhuowu abandoned worldly glory and shaved his head, and his writings have spread throughout the land — what do you make of such a man?" I answered: Zhuowu possessed truly extraordinary talent and a bold, heroic spirit, and I genuinely respect him for it. And yet the very thing worth respecting in him is also, unfortunately, the very thing to be regretted. A man possessed of such talent and spirit, who fails to take the sages' own words as his measure, the constant Way as his standard, steadying himself with deep virtue and holding himself with real caution, will inevitably be drawn toward startling, deliberately unconventional pronouncements, meant only to please and amuse himself. Let me offer a few examples.

Zhuowu held that all things in heaven and on earth originate from yin and yang alone, and dismissed the claim that "the Supreme Ultimate gives rise to yin and yang" as sheer nonsense. He based this on the Yijing's own commentary, which says "once there was heaven and earth, only then did the ten thousand things come to exist," and so took heaven as yang and earth as yin, man as yang and woman as yin, as the very first and most fundamental principle, beyond which nothing else exists. But has he never considered that "the Yijing contains the Supreme Ultimate, which gives rise to the two modes" comes from that very same commentary attributed to Confucius himself — why, then, is one statement treated as the highest truth, and the other dismissed as mere nonsense?

He went so far as to rank the tyrannical First Emperor of Qin as the very foremost of all rulers, to praise Feng Dao's own repeated betrayal of loyalty across four dynasties as an act of great heroism, and to consider the deaths of the assassins Jing Ke and Nie Zheng the most fitting ends imaginable — while the very men traditionally honored as worthy and virtuous, he instead went out of his way to pick apart their every flaw. He even went so far, in his commentary on popular drama, to call the fidelity and integrity portrayed in The Lute and The Thorn Hairpin mere forced pretense, while praising The Western Chamber and Bowing to the Moon as simply following natural human inclination. Ah! The Great Learning says: "To love what others hate, and hate what others love — this is called going against human nature, and disaster is certain to follow." This describes Zhuowu exactly. What a pity!